


Always Raining

by defyaugury



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Normal Life, Angst, Bartender!Dipper, Human!Bill, M/M, Masterbation, Older!Dipper, but fluff between Bill & Dips b/c they cute, lots and lots of angst, mentions of domestic abuse, mentions of mental abuse, mentions of physical abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-13 23:34:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7142918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defyaugury/pseuds/defyaugury
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dipper's just a grad student that's trying to get his thesis finished and work his way through school. And he's really close to doing just that, that is until a mysterious stranger enters his bar late one night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What's New, Pussycat?

**Author's Note:**

> Highly inspired by this manga. Go! Read it! It will make you cry but it's beautiful! >>>
> 
> http://www.mangahere.co/manga/sabita_yoru_demo_koi_wa_sasayaku/
> 
> (Also the name was borrowed from the online bl comic "Always Raining Here" which I also highly recommend <3)

Smoke hung low in the air, weighing down on everything. Booth seats creaked as cracked vinyl leaked stuffing. Cueballs clacked together over green felt, fingertips coated in blue chalk as players chewed at their half extinguished cigars and slapped twenty dollar bills on the edges of the pool table. The poor lighting turned everything a washed out orange that looked unnatural and etherial. A jukebox stood in the corner, sagging to one side with a broken leg, churning out music that was about a decade too old. A fight had started one night when someone queued up "What's New Pussycat?" to be played twenty-one times in a row.

Dipper Pines leaned back against the liquor rack behind the bar as he brought a cigarette up to balance between his teeth. He brought a lighter to his face, the flame flashing in front of his eyes. He took a deep breath and sighed, smoke spilling from his nostrils. Technically speaking, he wasn't supposed to be smoking while on the job, but technically speaking, he really didn't care. Besides, it was a weeknight and late. The bar was all but empty, so who cared?

Dipper hugged at his side with one hand and brought his cigarette to his lips again, letting smoke spill into his lungs, the slight buzz of nicotine already giving him a small tingling in his fingers. His eyes flicked around the bar, taking in their meager clientele. The bar certainly wasn't the most popular one in town, but still, they had a fair amount of patrons on a good weekend. Unfortunately, this was not a weekend. This was Wednesday, which meant the night was slow to drinks and quick to driving Dipper insane.

It was quiet, despite the music coming from the jukebox, and he hadn't served a drink in over an hour. He'd already wiped down the bar at least three times, making the lacquer shine. He'd cleaned all of the glasses behind the bar and had rearranged all the liquor twice, once by color and then again by name. His fingers twitched around his cigarette as he brought it to his mouth again. His knee bounced, heal tapping against the back wall of the bar. God, he just needed _something_ to do.

Dipper was never the type to sit still. Type A sort. His childhood summers had been filled with endless days of climbing through the woods behind his great uncle's house, recording everything he saw in excruciating detail, unable to stay in one place for more than two minutes. He powered through all his work at graduate school, spending hours honed in on his research and studies with notebooks filled cover to cover with sprawling handwriting. Some nights he wouldn't even sleep, caught up as he was in his thesis. He'd stay at the library throughout the night without realizing it, only seeing the morning sun when he came down to the first floor for a cup of coffee. He liked to keep busy, to keep his mind working and focused on some thing or another. So an agonizingly slow night such as this was all but torture for him. He wasn't even sure why he'd taken a job like this when he _knew_ weeknights like this were always slow. He sighed, blotting out the rest of his cigarette in an ashtray. Oh, that's why he took it, to pay for this stupid addiction of his.

Dipper was about to start pulling out his own hair and take up pacing behind the bar like an idiot, when the door bell jingled. He looked up, trying not to look too desperate as his eyes locked on the man that had just slid through the heavy glass door. It clanked shut behind him, the noise startlingly loud in the quiet of the bar.

Dipper blinked. Well this was new; a customer he'd never seen before. Usually the bar had a steady stream of regulars, most of the faces Dipper had been able to memorize in the first few weeks of working here. But this face was unrecognizable. The stranger had trimmed golden hair styled perfectly with not a strand out of place. He stood tall and lithe, every movement made with confidence.

He strode up to the bar and slid smoothly into a seat, tan fingers clasping together over the slick wood of the bar. He looked up at Dipper and grinned wide, showing a full set of perfectly straight white teeth. Bright gold eyes flashed in the light of the bar, like dripping honey, warm and sweet and mesmerizing. A tiny, triangle-shaped freckle marked the space just below his right eye, emphasizing the gentle curve of full eyelashes.

Dipper stared at the stranger, his breath caught in his chest. God, he was gorgeous, in every sense of the word. He blinked, snapping out of his daze as he realized the stranger was talking to him as he slid out of his jacket to reveal an impeccable button down and waistcoat. He pulled at the bowtie at his throat, unbuttoning his collar before rolling up his sleeves to reveal muscled forearms that flexed over the bar.

Dipper shook his head, trying to jar loose whatever cotton had jammed itself in his ears. He'd only just realized the stranger had been speaking.

"Uh, sorry, say that again?" he asked, stumbling over embarrassed words. What was wrong with him?  
The stranger simply grinned at him, teeth sparkling in the bar light. "Daydreaming are we, hot stuff?"

Dipper felt his face flush. "C-Can I get you anything?" he asked, ignoring the heat crawling up his neck.

The stranger chuckled, leaning his elbows on the bar. "How about a martini, then?" he asked, grinning up at Dipper.

Dipper gave a curt nod and turned his back to the stranger, shuffling through the bottles to find gin and vermouth. He felt those bright golden eyes on him, burning holes in the back of his head. Glasses clinked and he slipped the bottles back into their places, trying to ignore the cactus prickle nerves running down his back from prying eyes.

He dropped the olive and toothpick into the glass and spun around before shoving it onto the bar in front of the stranger, spilling a few drops in the process. The stranger raised his eyebrows and Dipper had to swallow the lump in his throat.

"I—um, sorry," he muttered before grabbing a rag and hastily cleaning up the spilled drink. He nearly knocked the glass over in his rush, but the stranger plucked it from the counter just in time. He looked down at Dipper with a quirked brow.

Dipper leaned back, fingers twisting in the towel. "Oh, um, sorry again, I wasn't," his words faded out. Why was he acting so nervous all of a sudden? Just because of this stranger? This stranger with the too beautiful eyes and the too perfect face and the too strong jaw and the too muscled forearms—Wait, what? Dipper shook his head, trying to clear it. He was doing it again, letting his thoughts run away with him.

The stranger gazed up at him, eyebrows raised and the slightest look of amusement in his tilted mouth as he raised his martini to his lips. "Something the matter, kid?"

Dipper blinked, his fingers stilling in the rag. "Ah, no," he gave a small shake of his head. "No, sorry, just been a long night." He sighed and threw the rag back under the bar before fumbling out a single cigarette and bringing it to his lips. He was about to bring his lighter up, when he glanced up to find the stranger watching him, gold eyes shining an intensity that made his face burn.

Dipper paused, cigarette jumping between his lips as he swallowed. "I, um, do you mind?" he asked.

The stranger smiled. "Do I mind you breaking the rules?" he asked, bringing his martini to his lips. "Not at all, kid."

Dipper blinked at the stranger. That wasn't exactly what he'd asked. Dipper shook his head and lit his cigarette, taking a long drag and leaning back against the rack behind the bar. Smoke spilled from his mouth.

"So, um," Dipper said, swallowing again. "I haven't seen you in here before."

"No," the stranger said, setting his glass down. "I guess you wouldn't."

Dipper cocked his head to the side. "Is it your first time in here?"

The stranger mimicked him, tilting his head to the side as an amused smirk slipped onto his face. "Yes. Why're you asking?"

Dipper felt his face flush again and he ducked his head, his shoulders bouncing in a shrug. "I don't know," he muttered. "Just curious, I guess."

"Ah," the stranger purred, leaning forward on the bar. "Curiosity killed the cat, you know."

Dipper glanced up at him through his lashes and then off to the side. He brought his cigarette to his lips again.

"But satisfaction brought it back," he said simply.

The stranger blinked, that burning gaze fizzling out as he leaned back in his seat. Dipper managed to look up at him properly, only to see the look on his face as...impressed, more than anything else.

Dipper took another drag, the smoke spouting from his nostrils curling between them like a shroud. "So what made you decide to come in here tonight?"

The stranger grinned, his hands playing with one another, lacing his fingers and pulling them apart and walking them between one another, long and nimble. They fascinated Dipper, watching them dance. "Looked like it was going to rain," the stranger said. "Needed a place to stay until it passed."

"Clever," Dipper smirked. "It never rains around here."

The stranger ginned wider. "Really?" he asked, spinning in his seat to stare out the window at the bone dry street. "I thought it was always raining!"

"Well I guess that just makes you crazy then," Dipper said, a small smile on his face as he took back the empty martini glass.

"Oh," the stranger said, swiveling his head on his shoulders to look back at Dipper. He plucked the toothpick from the glass just before Dipper could put it away and sucked the olive on it into his mouth. "More than you'll ever know, kid," he winked, rolling the toothpick between his teeth.

Dipper watched the toothpick, suddenly overcome with an urge to pull it from the strangers lips and kiss him right on the mouth. He blinked himself out of it, surprised by his own thoughts. No, no, no, that was something he _definitely_ couldn't do.

The stranger smiled at him, toothpick poised at the corner of his mouth, the look in his eyes saying he knew exactly what Dipper was thinking. Dipper swallowed, pushing the idea out of his head. This guy couldn't really read thoughts...could he?

"Another?"

Dipper blinked. "Huh?"

"Geez, kid, are you always this attentive?" the stranger asked, toothpick bobbing. "How about getting me another martini?" he asked again.

Dipper felt himself flush for the umpteenth time that night and ducked to fix another drink.

 

* * *

 

The stranger continued coming to the bar, practically becoming a regular within the week. And every night he'd order a martini, and every night, he and Dipper would talk. Not about anything important, really. They'd talk about minor things, about the weather that never really changed, about how their days were, about other people in the bar, about this and that, that and this. The stranger always grinned at him, and made strange jokes that sometimes turned a little insulting, but Dipper rolled them off his shoulders, none of them being the worst he'd ever gotten.

Dipper couldn't quite put his finger on it, but there was something about the stranger, something that fascinated him. It was the way his eyes flashed in the light of the bar, the way his spider-like fingers walked around the edge of his martini glass, the way his laughter sounded like wind chime in a hurricane, wild and dangerous. It was the way he looked at Dipper, like he couldn't quite decide if Dipper was a pet or a tasty morsel or perhaps just a really interesting person to talk to. It was the way he always smiled when he saw Dipper, the way he _always_ seemed to be smiling.

One night the stranger had come in with a gash across the palm of his hand, something that had happened with a letter opener he'd said. At sometime during the night, the wound re-opened and started bleeding everywhere. Dipper had scrambled for a clean rag to staunch the bleeding, but the stranger had simply laughed and wiped his blood-drenched hand across his face. He started talking about how hilarious pain was and he'd grinned up at Dipper with blood between his teeth.

After a few seconds of stunned silence, the only thing Dipper could do was laugh and shake his head.

"You're crazy, you know that?"

"Kid, you don't even know the half of it," the stranger said, grinning as he wrapped his palm with the rag Dipper had offered him. "Now how's about you get me another goddamned martini?"

It continued on like that for a little over a week, neither of them diving into conversation deeper than the two degree change in the weather and whether the guy in the last booth was either a serial killer or a baker for the confectionary shop down the street. That is until one night, on a particularly slow evening, Dipper's curiosity about the captivating stranger with the golden-honey eyes got the better of him. He'd let the question slip off his tongue: "So where is it that you work exactly?" He'd immediately cringed inwardly as soon as the words left his mouth. Too forward, too obvious. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He ducked under the bar, hoping to hide his burning face as he searched for a clean martini glass and a new bottle of Dipper let out s.

"I work at a law firm a few blocks down as an intern."

Dipper froze, stunned to have received such a straight-forward answer. Usually the stranger would answer such a blatant question with strange riddles or dance around answering all together. But tonight, something about tonight was different. Dipper rose from behind the bar, his face carefully undisturbed. He could see it, what was different. The way the stranger didn't hold himself up completely straight. The way his eyes were slightly glassed over and how laughter seemed to fall from his lips more easily. Dipper had a strong suspicion that this martini wasn't his first drink of the night.

"What about you, kid?" the stranger asked quickly before Dipper could properly respond.

Dipper flashed him an unamused look as he started opening the drink. "You should know that answer to that already. You only see me in here basically every night."

"Ah, yes, of course," the stranger said. He grinned up at Dipper, flashing wolfish teeth. "I was simply wondering if you worked any _thing_ else. A street, or a pole perhaps...?"

Dipper's face flushed beet red and he nearly dropped the bottle he was holding. He managed to catch it just in time. He cleared his throat loudly.

"Sounds fun, working on cases at a law firm," he said, perhaps a bit too quickly and a bit too loudly.

He couldn't help but feel the stranger's gaze boring into him, the most amused grin on his face. Surprisingly enough, the stranger decided to drop the previous comment, instead answering Dipper directly.

"Ah, no, not really," he said, leaning back on his stool. "I just mostly file paperwork and research. I haven't even passed the bar yet."

"Okay," Dipper conceded as he began mixing the drink. "Maybe not so fun then."

"I'm sleeping with my boss."

Dipper didn't react. It felt like 20,000 volts of electricity had shot straight through his chest, but he didn't give a single sign that he'd heard what Bill had just said. It was so random a confession, so unprovoked, so unnecessary. His face remained impassive as he continued to pour the liquor.

"Really?" he asked as if they were discussing the weather.

The stranger grinned, looking up at him as Dipper kept his eyes trained on the glass, a few drops spilling onto the smooth oak bar.

"Are you not surprised?" the stranger asked, his voice a low purr, leaning forward.

"Should I be?" Dipper asked without looking up. He began putting away the bottles, the martini finished.

The stranger continued to watch Dipper carefully, a grin stretching his face. When he spoke, his voice was low, like soft velvet against the skin. "He keeps me late sometimes after everyone else has left and forces me onto his desk, pulling at my hair and biting at my neck. He says I belong to no one but him."

Dipper swallowed. "Is that so?"

"Yeah," the stranger said, his smile growing wider. He swept his martini towards himself. "Most nights I don't even go home. He insists I stay at his place."

"Do you want to stay at his place?" Dipper asked a bit too abruptly, still refusing to look up. He'd pulled out a rag and was wiping down the bar.

When he didn't receive an answer right away, Dipper paused. He finally raised his head, only to find the stranger look away quickly and take a sip of his drink.

"Geez, kid," he said, setting the drink back down and ignoring Dipper's question. "You really need to learn how to make a martini. This is pitiful."

 

* * *

 

The stranger didn't come back for a week after that. Dipper wasn't sure if it was because he'd asked where the stranger worked or if it was because the impromptu confession he'd received concerning sex and bosses had not been intentional. Either way, he couldn't help the way his head jerked up every time the door opened, hoping to see a familiar set of bright gold eyes and wide, glinting smile. He wasn't even sure what he would've said if the stranger _had_ come back. Should he apologize? Apologize for what exactly? For asking a harmless question? For doing nothing to instigate a complete stranger confessing his private life to him?

Or maybe he shouldn't bring it up at all. Maybe he should just pretend that the last night had never happened and they could simply continue on with their meaningless conversations and the stranger could continue to smile at Dipper and Dipper could continue to laugh at the stranger's vague and cryptic jokes.

Either way, Dipper reminded himself the whole speculation was pointless if the stranger never even came back. By the end of the week, Dipper was starting to all but give up hope. He wasn't entirely sure why he was taking it this hard to begin with. It's not like they _knew_ each other. They were strangers after all. They didn't even know each other's names. But still, the thought of never seeing that grinning face, of never hearing that laughter or feeling those burning gold eyes on him, fill Dipper with a cold dread. And he wasn't exactly sure why.

After all, it was obvious that nothing could start between them either way. The stranger had already said he was in...well Dipper guessed he could call it a committed relationship—Oh, God, what was he thinking? A _relationship?_ Was he really entertaining the idea of a relationship with an absolute stranger that he knew nothing about besides the fact that he was probably crazy and was currently fucking his boss?

Dipper shook his head, trying to jar the thought loose as he shook out another cigarette and lit it. He let out a sigh and leaned back against the liquor rack, smoke curling towards the ceiling. Maybe it was for the best. If he never saw the stranger again, then he wouldn't even have to worry about these things any more, would he? Yeah, Dipper thought idly, it was for the best.

His thoughts were interrupted in the next second by the door of the bar opening. Dipper looked up, the momentary hope in his chest merely habit by this point. He caught a glimpse of bright gold eyes, an impeccable button down waistcoat, a glint of a brilliant white smile. Dipper's breath all but caught in his chest.

Dipper watched in silence, stunned, as his long lost stranger made his way to the bar, settling himself onto a stool and grinning up at Dipper like he couldn't be happier.

"Hey, hot stuff."

Dipper felt himself blush. He swallowed. "I, um, hey."

"About as articulate as I remember, I see," the stranger said with another mischievous grin.

Dipper cleared his throat and hastily put out his cigarette. "Sorry, um, can I get you anything?"

"I think we both know what I want, kid," the stranger said with a wink.

A smile slipped onto Dipper's face, his hands automatically going to the gin and vermouth, a strange warmth filling his chest at the familiarity of the drink.

"You know for a while there, I was worried we weren't going to see you again," Dipper said as he began to mix.  
The stranger raised his eyebrows, a small smile slipping onto his face. "Worried about me, were you?"

Dipper glanced up at the stranger and smirked. "Not particularly, no. Just concerned we might loose one of our best customers."

The stranger laughed, loud and harsh yet somehow soft at the same time, like it was trapped somewhere between a cackle and a giggle. God, how Dipper had missed that laugh.

"Of course!" the stranger said happily. "Well, no need to worry, cutie, just had a mountain of paperwork lately that I had to take care of. But lucky for you, I'm back!"

Dipper slid the stranger's martini across the bar and put away the bottles. He paused for a moment, the smile slipping from his face as he thought about what to say next. An apology was at the tip of his tongue, daring to leap off, but he held it back. The next thing to come to his head was what the stranger had confessed last time, but for some reason that topic seemed unbreachable to Dipper. He didn't know why, he just knew that the _last_ thing he wanted to talk about was how the stranger's current sex life was going.

So, he pulled back both conversations and stuffed them deep, refusing to let them come to the surface. Instead he glanced up at the stranger, noticing for the first time that night that something was out of place.

"Hey, uh," Dipper started. "What happened?"

The stranger looked up. "Hm?"

"Your face," Dipper said, nodding to the stranger's forehead, where a bandage was taped across his temple. "The band-aid."

"Oh, this is nothing," the stranger scoffed, waving a superfluous hand around his face. "I fell at work, hit my head against a desk. There was blood everywhere, it was a mess—ah, ha, now everyone just jokes about what a klutz I am," he said, grinning at Dipper as he took another sip from his glass. "Anyways, it's no big deal, pain is hilarious, remember?"

"Hm," Dipper said, eyebrows raised as he began to wipe down the bar. "Maybe I should start calling you a klutz, too."

"Or you could call me by my name," the stranger said, setting his glass down.

Dipper paused, his heart suddenly picking up speed without his permission. He tried not to let it show as he continued to wipe the counter.

"Sort of hard to do if I don't know your name," he said.

"Bill," the stranger said. "Bill Cipher."

Dipper raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking in a smile. "I expect you'll want my name now."

"Nah, you can keep that to yourself," Bill said with a wave of his hand. "Think I'll just call you...Pine Tree."

A laugh escaped Dipper. "Pine Tree?"

Bill shrugged. "Yeah, you wear that stupid pin all the time," he said, gesturing to the small tree-shaped pin pinned to Dipper's vest, an heirloom he'd gotten from his great uncle one summer. "And," Bill added, "you sort of smell like pine trees."

"Wha—I do not!" Dipper said, chucking his rag at Bill.

Bill laughed as he ducked out of the way. Dipper tried to discreetly duck his head under his arm to see if he really did smell like pine trees. Apparently he wasn't discreet enough.

"Don't worry, kid," Bill laughed. "It's a good smell."

Dipper looked up, blushing profusely, but grinning all the same. The two threw jokes and insults back and forth, laughing late into the night.


	2. Fireflies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I know nothing about how to sport.

The stranger—well, no, wait, Bill—Lord how Dipper relished in being able to use a real name for him now. No more mysterious "stranger." He had a name now, Dipper could put a name to a face and it was one of the biggest reliefs he'd had since he'd gotten that email saying the deadline for his thesis had been pushed back.

Bill continued coming back to the bar. Neither of them had brought up Bill's previous and spontaneous confession again, much to Dipper's relief. He still wasn't quite sure how he'd handle that conversation, wasn't quite sure if he ever wanted to handle that conversation. Instead, their choice of topic slipped back to simple things, like who was most likely to die next on Game of Thrones or if they could technically call the last six months without rain a drought, if it never rained in their little town anyways.

Fortunately, Dipper didn't have much time to maul over Bill's surprising confession, as wrapped up as he was with his thesis. He'd even called out of work one night to stay up studying at the library for the third day in a row. But every now and then—when he'd stared at the same page of notes for the last hour, only to have nothing sink in—his thoughts would drift to the not so much a stranger anymore. He'd think of burning gold eyes, of a perfect smile, of the way his laugh sounded when Dipper had something especially stupid. These wandering thoughts usually left him with burning cheeks as he buried his face in his textbook.

God, how embarrassing was that? To be nearing his mid-twenties and to have a crush on a stranger, like some middle schooler. On more than one occasion, Dipper found himself jerking awake at his study table, drool staining his papers and pen ink leaked onto his cheek. But these weren't the most embarrassing things he'd wake to. Oh no, the most embarrassing was when he woke to the tent in his pants, hidden as it was by the table, with the whispering linger of dreams about a stranger in a waistcoat with a triangle-shaped birthmark on his cheek still sending shivers down his spine.

It was on these occasions he'd sneak off to the library bathroom and lock the door, spending the next few minutes on a secluded toilet, stroking himself. He'd think of porn he'd recently watched, of Baywatch, or the one time his great uncle had taken him to a strip club when he was eighteen, but none of that seemed to work. That was when he let his mind drift to dangerous territory. He dredged up his dreams, the ones filled with mussed golden hair and flushed cheeks, and hot, heavy panting. He'd think about Bill, imagine what he might look like, pushed up onto his boss's desk, naked and covered in sweat and moaning—oh, God, the _moans_ he'd make, the kind of moans that came from the back of the throat, the kind that were nothing but pure sex and desire.

It was these images Dipper thought of as he stroked himself, these images he thought of as he came, hard and fast with a hand clamped over his own mouth so no one could hear his shouts.

It was in the aftermath of these moments, when Dipper was leaned back on his toilet seat, staring up at the ceiling with wide eyes, that he wondered what the hell was wrong with him. It was in these fleeting moments, Dipper felt like crying, silently cursing himself, realizing just how disgusting he was. It was in these moments, he screwed his eyes shut, clamped his teeth down, and shoved those thoughts and images down as far deep as they would go.

 _He keeps me late sometimes after everyone else has left and forces me onto his desk_ , the words echo in Dipper's head like a Bible verse, irrefutable. _He says I belong to no one but him._

In the last of these moments, Dipper stared a the wall of the bathroom stall, only vaguely aware of someone pounding on the locked door outside. It's useless, he reminded himself. He thought of when he was small, no older than seven, outside in the front lawn with a glass jar clasped in his tiny hands, determined to catch a galaxy and let it light his room at night. He'd spent hours out there, trying to catch falling stars, trying to catch the sky and keep it on his night stand. Bill is as unattainable as the stars in the sky.

Dipper sighed and pushed himself to his feet. He siphons off these emotions, these feelings churning in his chest.

_He says I belong to no one but him._

It was in the last of these moments, Dipper washed himself and unlocked the bathroom door, slumping his way back to his study table.

It was in the last of these moments that his memories faded out, and he was left to forget the rest of that night when he was seven. In was in the last of these moments that he forgets that he came inside that night with a jar full of stars. It was in the last of these moments, that he forgets about setting his little glass jar on his nightstand, watching the fireflies buzz inside. And how the next morning, he set them all free.

And then there are no more of these moments. Because Dipper tells himself to give up on Bill Cipher, a man as unattainable as the stars.

 

* * *

 

Two weeks later and Dipper looks up from the bar at the sound of the door opening.

He couldn't even stop the first words out of his mouth. "Jesus, what happened to you?"

Bill Cipher stood just inside the door and offered a tired smile, though with the same spark in his eye he usually had. His usually perfect hair is more pristine than usual, swept carefully to the side in a failed attempt to hide a horribly purple black eye. His lip was fat and swollen from a split, but he didn't wince when he grinned and the skin around it stretched tight. For the first time since Dipper's met him, his waist coat was less than flawless, with only one button half-undone, like his fingers had been shaking when he'd dressed himself this morning.

Dipper's hands are already going for the a martini glass, but he watched as Bill slid into his usual barstool, his posture only slightly more hunched than usual. "Oh, um, I'm fine," Bill shrugged off the question. "Just a stupid mistake."

Dipper raised a sceptic eyebrow. "Don't tell me it was another desk."

Bill flashes a grin then, wide and bright, and for a moment, Dipper wants to believe that Bill's really okay. But blood was trickling from that cut on his lip and there was no way that black eye wasn't hurting like a son of a bitch.

"Ha, no," Bill laughed as he pulled the martini towards him. Is he breaking eye contact more than usual? "Just—ah—got into a fight with someone the other night. I knew I shouldn't've but, you know, what can you do? Ha."

"Let me guess," Dipper said. He ducked behind the bar and came back up with a fist full of ice wrapped in a rag. "I should see the other guy."

"Actually, no," Bill said. For some reason, he's still smiling, as if he hadn't just come into Dipper's bar beat to hell. "The other guy got away just fine, sorry to say."

Bill took the offered ice and presses it to his eye, letting out a small sigh of relief.

Dipper watched him carefully as Bill balances the ice pack while taking a sip of his martini.

"You don't strike me as the type to get into fights," Dipper said.

"Well, I usually don't." Bill settled his empty glass back on the bar. And flashed a devilish grin. "No, I'm the type to have other people fight _for_ me. That way I get to keep my hands clean."

A smirk slips onto Dipper's lips as he snatches back the empty glass and pours another drink. Bill might've looked like a mess, but at least he was still acting like himself. When he was done with the second drink, he slid it across the bar, Bill's long fingers wrapping around the stem.

"What about you?"

Dipper looked up, surprise. "What?"

Bill grinned as he took a sip from his glass. His make-shift ice pack was starting to melt. "Would you fight for me, Pine Tree?"

Dipper snorted. "Yeah, right. Like I'd want to become your pawn." Dipper instantly regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, hating how they'd sounded.

Bill's lips twitched into a small, sad smile and Dipper's heart sank. "Pity," Bill said, as he took a sip from his drink. "You look like you have a strong left hook."

 

* * *

 

Friday night, one of their busiest nights. Dipper was swamped. The bar was crowded, bursting at the seams. Some sort of play off was on tonight, the mounted televisions in every corner showing a bright green field covered with players—players of what, Dipper couldn't tell for the life of him. Every now and then, the bottom of the screens would flash a flash fire warning, no doubt a result of the relentless drought that had settled over them.

Every now and then, one team or another would score or touch down or something as equally interesting and the bar would erupt, with patrons screaming and jumping and shoving one another. Dipper silently prayed another fight wound't break out like last time.

Tonight it was only him and one other bartender, a girl named Grenda. She was big, stalky, with a gruff voice and enough tolerance to outdrink and entire biker gang—it'd happened once before, Dipper had seen it. She was a friend if Dipper's sister, and after hearing she'd come into town and needed a part-time job while she trained for an upcoming MMA fight, Dipper put in a good word and managed to get her hired at his bar. He could always use some extra muscle behind the counter. Especially for the fights that ended with broken chairs.

They were swarmed, with Dipper barely able to keep up with orders as the patrons kept spilling their beer every time the buzzer on the televisions sounded. He barely noticed when the door to the bar opened and a gold and black clad figure slipped through.

Dipper only saw Bill when he glanced over his shoulder, the other man standing rather awkwardly at the edge of the crowd of sports-goers. Bill looked nervously around at the clientele, which was not their average crowd for a Friday, thanks to the game. Every time some one shouted, he winced, like he expected something to come flying at his face.

Dipper paused. Something was wrong. Bill never acted nervous, never acted awkward or anxious. Not that he was exactly acting like all those things right now, but there was definitely something there, something right below the surface that was obviously bothering him.

Their eyes locked across the bar.

Bill flashed a toothy grin, a stark contrast to his jumpy behavior. "Sorry," he shouted over the noise of the bar. "You're busy, I'll just go.

"No it's alright," Dipper shouted back, perhaps a bit too quickly. He turned over his shoulder. "Grenda, take over for me for a bit?"

"You got it," she said with a wink. She turned back to the patrons. "Alright, who wants to slam some shots with the Grend-machine?!"

It must have been half-time because a cheer went up around the bar and everyone flooded to Grenda's side, leaving the televisions ignored.

Dipper slipped out from behind the counter, glancing at Bill and nodding him over to a small corner where they could talk. Dipper hunched his shoulders and folded his arms, watching Bill with concern. The black eye and split lip had already healed, leaving Bill's face as flawless and gorgeous as ever, but he still kept casting furtive glances around, his eyes darting between the other patrons, who were now all chanting "Shot! Shot! Shot! Shot!" at Grenda.

"Haven't seen you around lately," Dipper said. They were far enough away from the commotion, he didn't have to shout.

Bill's eyes flitted back to him. A weak smile shifted onto his face. "Ah, no. I've been staying late at work recently." Bill rubbed at the back of his neck. "Overtimes and all that."

"Recently," Dipper scoffed. "I haven't seen you in almost a month. I was starting to wonder what had happened."

Bill didn't answer. He bit his lip and glanced away again. Seriously, what was wrong with him?

Dipper narrowed his eyes. "You still staying with your boss?"

Bill offered another small smile. "Yeah."

"He the one that's been keeping you late?"

Bill swallowed, his adams apple bouncing. "Yeah." He gave a small, airy laugh. "He says he likes to keep an eye on me, likes to know what I'm doing."

Dipper quirked an eyebrow. "Sounds a bit controlling, doesn't it?"

"Nah," Bill said, ducking his head to rub at his neck. A wide grin slipped onto his face. "He just cares about me is all. It's sort of nice, really."

He looked up at Dipper then, his eyes flashing. Dipper had been about to say something, but Bill's smile just looked so genuine, so happy, he bit back his comment.

The patrons had started banging on tables, chanting some sort of mantra as the players on the tv's ran across the field.

"Anyways," Bill shrugged. "Now doesn't really look like a good time for a martini," he said, glancing around at the overcrowded bar. He offered Dipper a small smile and a wave. "See ya around, kid."

And then he left, leaving Dipper in a stunned silence, with his voice caught in his throat. He stared, wide-eyed as he watched Bill leave, unable to think of anything but what he'd just seen. Bill had lifted his hand in a good-bye, his sleeve had slid back, revealing a bright red circle that had swelled into an angry welt on the soft underside of his forearm.

It had looked exactly like a cigarette burn.

 

* * *

 

"I was worried we wouldn't see you again. Afraid you'd dropped off the face of the Earth."

Bill slid onto his barstool, eyes glittering. He flashed a wide smile, canines showing. "Ha. You wish."

Dipper couldn't help but smile. It was another quiet night, the bar practically empty and no one behind the counter but Dipper. It'd been nearly two weeks since the crazy night with the play off game. The clean up the morning after had been a near disaster and he'd had to ask for overtime. He hadn't seen hide nor hair of Bill since.

For a while, he'd entertained the idea of going to check up on the still rather mysterious bar-goer, just to make sure everything was all right. Dipper'd even found his name in the telephone book, surprised to find that Bill had given him his real name.

The sight of the tall, slickly dressed stranger sent a wave of relief crashing down on Dipper. He wasn't entirely sure if the relief came from knowing Bill was all right, or from knowing Bill didn't hate him.

And then Bill smiled, his teeth flashing in that same, wide, toothy grin as before and Dipper felt like he was looking at the sun. A tingling elation shot up his spine at that smile, the same smile that could send butterflies into his stomach and make him feel like maybe the world wasn't such shit after all.

"So where've you been this time?" Dipper asked as he started mixing a martini. He glanced up. "More late-night work?"

"Um, yes and no." Bill shifted in his seat.

"Care to elaborate?" Dipper put away the gin and vermouth and tapped out a cigarette. He lit it and leaned against the liquor rack behind the bar, smoke spilling from his nose. He let out a thankful sigh.

Bill smiled as he pulled his glass towards him. "Ah, it's not so much work as my boss likes me to come home straight after I'm done with my paperwork. He doesn't like it when I stay out late," Bill said, keeping his eyes trained on his glass. "He says it's dangerous."

For a moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the clatter of billiard balls from the one-on-one game of pool in the secluded corner of the bar. Smoke trailed from Dipper's cigarette, curling up between them. Bill never once looked at him.

"He said you weren't allowed to come here anymore," Dipper said bluntly.

Bill flashed a smile at his glass, but it died quickly. "Yeah."

"So why are you here?" Dipper asked. He shifted against the rack, his cigarette's smoke trail following.

Bill leaned back on his barstool, still not looking at Dipper. He let out a long sigh, and for the first time since Dipper's known him, his face looked tired. "Sometimes I sneak out anyways. He's out of town at the moment—business trip." He shrugged. "So I get a little free range right now."

"You relieved he's gone?" Dipper asked. His cigarette twitched, forgotten between his fingers.

Bill smiled at his glass again, and this time, it lingered. "Pine Tree, Pine Tree, have you always been this nosey?" he asked, finally looking up with that smile that left Dipper weak at the knees. He let out a sigh, taking a sip of his martini. He gave a nonchalant shrug. "I mean I miss him, of course. But, I don't know," Bill's voice teetered out, growing soft, "sometimes it's nice to be on your own for a bit, you know?"

"How long has he been gone?" Dipper asked.

Bill shrugged. "Not sure. A week or so? Why?"

Dipper brought his cigarette to his lips, taking a long drag. He sighed, smoke rushing from his mouth like a flood. He looked up at Bill then. He thought of his smile, the way it flashed in the light of the bar, the way it had come so much easier in the months before.

"Because," Dipper sighed, stamping out his cigarette. "You're happier when he's gone."

 

* * *

 

"I'm telling you, that's what's in a White Russian!" Dipper screamed across the bar. "Vodka, coffee liqueur, and cream! That's it! You want something else, then _order_ it."

He'd been at this for nearly five minutes, with the old, watery-eyed man on the other side of the bar yelling at him, saying his drink was wrong and insisting on a free one. Dipper kept retorting with the same answer, _No fucking way_. He was getting close to just giving up and throwing the old man out of the bar all together so he wouldn't have to deal with him.

This was just his day. First, he'd found out the lead on research he'd been following for his thesis for the last three weeks wasn't reliable, so that was weeks worth of work down the drain. Then he'd found out his rent had been upped, which meant taking on more shifts just to pay for living expenses. Then the handle to his grocery bag had broke on the way to his car, dropping everything inside. Eggs shattered on the pavement and the milk had exploded, spoiling in the dry afternoon sun.

The weather had yet to let up, and as per usual, there was no chance of rain for a reprieve. Radio stations kept warning their listeners about the dangers of dehydration and skin cancer. The screen to his phone had cracked, his coffee had spilled over his notes, and then he'd been called into a shift last minute because someone else had had the wonderful idea to contract diarrhea and had called out of work. And now he was screaming at an withered man who looked to be about as old as the town itself, with weepy watery eyes and dried out wrinkly skin that said he'd spent too much of his youth in the sun. On what was supposed to be his day off.

Fantastic.

Dipper finally managed to settle the old man with a margarita charged to his tab and a handful of free pretzels, when he heard the door open. He turned to find a familiar face.

Bill Cipher stood just inside the door, his entire front soaked in blood. Red pasted his chest and shirt in a flood, a river running from what was very obviously a bruised, if not broken, nose. Bill offered up a wide smile, which looked positively gory, covered in blood as he was.

"Hey, Pine Tree, how's it going?"

 _Great_ , Dipper thought. _Just great._

 

Dipper leaned against the wall of the bar's back storage room, which was really nothing more than a broom closet, stacked with a few extra glasses and cases of liquor. A painfully bright bulb shone overhead, washing everything out with a white light. Bill sat on an overturned bucket, cleaning himself up the best he could, while a bag of ice sat waiting off to the side.

The bleeding had stopped, which was a small blessing. Bill still looked like he'd tried to kill someone with his face, blood staining the entire front of his shirt and waistcoat. Red still leaked between his teeth. His nose was swollen and had already started to turn a brilliant rainbow of purples and blacks.

Dipper kept his arms crossed over his chest, scowling as he watched Bill wipe away the last of the blood with a wet rag.

"Did your boss do this?" he asked, his tone heavy.

Bill blinked, looking up at him in surprise. "What?" he said, his voice nasally from his swollen nose.

"Your boss," Dipper said, an edge creeping into his voice. "Your boyfriend. Was he the one that did this to you?"

He'd been suspecting for weeks now. First of course, there'd been the cuts, the bruises, and burn marks. Bill did his best to hide them, to explain them away with one excuse or another, but he couldn't keep them all hidden. At first Dipper had simply thought that was just the sort of thing Bill was into, BDSM, bondage, etcetera. He just liked to play hard. It fit his personality.

But then there was the way Bill jumped at small noises or raised voices, the way he kept glancing at the door when ever he came in, like he was frightened the wrong person would come through it. It wasn't like him, it just wasn't _Bill_.

There had to be something going on. Something that was happening with Bill that Dipper just couldn't see. And he had a pretty good idea of what it was.

Bill looked up at Dipper, eyes wide with fear for the briefest second before it vanished, a familiar, forced smile settling onto his features again.

"Pine Tree," he drawled as if it were all a joke. "Of course not! I wasn't paying attention to where I was going and ran in to a door. It was all my fault, it's—look I know what you're thinking, and I can promise you, he'd never hurt me. So you can stop worrying okay?"

"Bill," Dipper sighed, pushing off from the wall.

Bill stood quickly. "Look, I've caused you enough trouble as it is." He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket before shoving a crumpled twenty at Dipper. "That's for my drink. I'll just get out of your hair."

"Bill," Dipper said, exasperation lacing his voice. "You didn't even order a drink."

"I need some way to pay for your patronage," Bill said with a shrug. He flashed another grin and bowed low. "Thank you and good night."

He pushed past Dipper and out of the broom closet then, making for the door of the bar. Dipper watched him leave. Bill was half-way gone by the time Dipper spoke.

"If it was just a door that did it, why did you come here?" he asked from across the bar.

Bill froze, balanced on the threshold between the open door. Dipper could see his back tense. For a moment, there was nothing but silence.

And then, "It was the closest place I could think of."

The door swung shut, and Bill was gone.

Dipper had looked up where Bill said he worked. The only law firm accepting interns in the area was all the way across town. The bar was the furthest you could possibly get from the firm. Dipper felt tears prick behind his eyes, a bitter taste filling his mouth. He kicked over the bucket Bill had been sitting on.

 _Closest place he could think of_ , Dipper thought. _Bullshit._


End file.
